


Olive & Gray

by Orselina



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abstract, Androgyny, Angels, Angst, Death, Depression, F/M, Genderqueer, Genderqueer Character, Guardian Angels, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, sadrousal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orselina/pseuds/Orselina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gently pulled its face to his.  It was indeed crying.  "I am sorry.  I am so sorry.  You must understand..."  His cheeks felt hot and he anticipated his own tears.  "...I don't want to be alone.  I've spent so much of my life forcing myself to adjust to loneliness; to not get comfortable.  When my daughter left, Matthew was all I had, and when they shot him..."  The man wanted to expand, but decided to skip to the point.  "When I lost him, I lost me.  I don't remember how to be alone, and I don't want to."   The Spirit held him close now, and let him weep openly.  It was the most humbling sight - this large strong body, trembling against its own in raw and unadulterated fear and despair.   "Please don't leave me," he choked between sobs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olive & Gray

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been fascinated by Divine sexuality and the concept of healing through sexuality. 
> 
> Also, as a genderqueer (bi-gender) person, there is a sore lack of androgynous erotica in the world, and I hope to help remedy this :)

 

The Man who Gave Everything and Left Himself Nothing opened the door. 

It was as if the color had been literally drained from his life, he thought, as he entered his small, two bedroom apartment. The chipped, flat white paint - was it even paint, or was it just two coats of primer? - and the mottled, gray linoleum peeled up at the corners like a comfortless smile. The black jersey sheets still bore gray patches of fur from a cat he reluctantly returned to a shelter - was it 'no-kill?' Why didn't he check? - after a spraying incident that set his landlord reeling. Said offending odor was semi-successfully masked by the dollar store body spray his daughter left behind.

She was married the week prior, on some remote island - full of candy pink flowers and magic-marker blue shores. The photos were sent to his little gray phone. " _Miss you, Daddy_."

The last colorless thing I must mention were the layers of stiff black clothing he peeled off as he made a b-line for his creaky bed. The jacket hit the ground. " _Matthew_." Then the tie. " _Matthew_." The vest. " _Matthew. Matthew is gone_." At " _gone_ ," the scuffed black oxfords were kicked off, aggressively, hitting the far side of the room with a thud. His pants followed next.  He dropped to the mattress, face first, in his unbuttoned dress shirt and faded boxer-briefs. His daughter, mock-dramatically, would use silly phrases like " _lie down and cry forever_ ," or " _I just can't life anymore_."  Today they rang as cruelly precise.  " _Matthew_."  The name barely wheezed out of a tired, dry mouth.  Matthew was dead.

He didn't pay attention to things like the color of the sky or whether he set his phone alarm, as **Lawn & Garden Junction** had mercifully given him the weekend off.  He needed a break from the obnoxiously green apron and name badge, and had personal time that needed to be used.  This was not how he wanted to use it.  

Instead, he lay there, drifting in and out of sleep, and in and out of blurry, indistinct dream.  That is why when, finally, what must have been 11pm, the lucidity and clarity of a gold-olive burst of light entered the room, he sat upright.   It didn't just enter the room.  It vaunted and bloomed like drops of food coloring in a glass of water.  And when it finally settled - ripples of silk slowly floating to the unglorious linoleum - at the center of it was something.  Some **one**. 

Its face was luminous enough so that the often incompliant lightswitch was not necessary.  Instead the man just squinted at it, unable to formulate questions.  It was not sleep or anguish that fogged his brain.  It was sheer befuddlement.  He shook slightly.  His pupils finally adjusted to the olive oil glow so that he could finally make out facial features.

The face was like one from a Roman coin or a 15th centurty Florentine portrait, all handsome dark brows, black doe eyes, aqualine nose, and wide mouth.  The hair was dark, cropped, and messily scattered in a wavy heap.  This was all fine - more than fine, really - but the confusion began when his dilated eyes gingerly traveled south.  A smooth, swarthy neck gave way to broad shoulders, and a defined yoke.  Wiry black curls collected beneath it, increasing in abundance as it traveled downward, answering the question he'd not thought to ask.   But then something was off.  Breasts -two pert, but weighty, slopes - met with a soft, round belly, and expansive hips.  The olive silk draped around its lower region gave no concerning hint of a bulge.  The man's face now scrunched as he returned to the sensible (given the situation) order of its face.

" _What are you?  How did you get in here?_ "   He gave the knee-jerk reaction of pressing a hand to his forehead to check for a fever.  He was soaked with sweat. 

It smiled at him in return, the wide mouth, wry and expressive, and stepped closer.  The man inched back like a sand crab, and almost slipped off the edge of the small bed.  " _Stop it_ ," it finally spoke, with a throaty chuckle.  The voice - gravely, but not bellowing - gave no hint of its gender, either.   As it inched forward, he could see that even its face bore a dichotomy - the long thick lashes of a magazine ad, and the bristled chin of a 17 year old boy.  " _I'm not going to hurt you.  As it were, I'm not even capable of doing so_."

The man remained hunched in the corner of the bed, mouth open, breaths shallow.   The thing sighed, patiently, and tried a more forthright approach.  " _I_ _was sent here to please you - to ease your pain.  You are a man who spent his life giving all and asked for nothing in return.  You are a man who is deemed worthy of relief. Is this not you?_ "

He ignored the present question.  " _ **Who** sent you?_ "

" ** _God._** "

He shook his head.  " _No...look..._ "  He was in no mood for crazy.  He sat up on the edge of the bed.  " _I'm going to call the police if -_ "  The word became lodged in his throat.   **Police**.  

" _Matthew_."  They both said it at the same time, and the man's face turned from confusion to full on panic.  

" _How do you know Matthew?_ "

" _This is what I am trying to tell you.  I know you.  I know your pain.  I know you spent today at his funeral.  I know you loved him.  I know you are hurt because your daughter wed somewhere you could not afford to see her, and that she did so without asking you.  I know you feel guilt of thinking ill thoughts of her mother and not amending them before she succumbed to her addiction.  I know you never made amends with your own parents before they passed.  I know how often you gave into your sorrow.  And I know that now you are at the end of your rope.  So does God.  That's why I am here.  I am the Spirit that sees all, and offers to give it.  I am your relief, my love.  I am your pleasure."_

 _  
_In its revelation, the man went from fighting a wet eye and a quivering lip, to hopelessly battling a chest full of sobs.  This was not right.  This was wrong.  This was a fever dream, and it was wrong.   Fifty seven year old men do not cry like this.  Fifty seven year old men do not listen to things that aren't real.  FIfty seven year old men don't-

" _Yes they do_ ," it said, finishing his thoughts, and pulling his damp, matted head to its soft, downy chest.  " _They feel like anyone else.  Take your pain out on me, my love_."  He noticed it was the second time it called him that.  " _Take me_."

The words filled him with a warmth that he guilted to feel.  Was it really what it said it was?  Was it real?  He looked up at its face once more, questioning its source.  " _From God?  Really?_ "

" _God_ ," It nodded.  " _Really_."   This was all it took for the man to succumb to... to this mix-mush of feelings: grief, confusion, adoration and arousal.  He reached up to the round, stubbly face, pulled it in and kissed it.  

Now, there's guilt, and then there is guilt for _not_ feeling enough guilt.  The man felt the latter.  The Spirit's soft lips against his own chapped, tear-stained ones did not feel like to a betrayal to his Matthew.  He knew it should.  But it did not.  It felt wonderful.  It was thoroughly engulfing with its small, strong hands clamped onto his weathered face, and strong jaw exploring his mouth and sucking his tongue.  It left him dizzy, happy to be already seated.  

He found himself fiddling with straps of the diaphonous olive dress without realizing it until the Spirit moved its own hands to cover his.  " _Go ahead_."   He slowly peeled it down to its waist, and there they were - the two sloping breasts now staring at him, mocking him, with the confusing valley of fur in between.  His face pained, he looked up at its face once more.  " _Please forgive me, but your anatomy confuses me greatly_."

The throaty chuckle returned.  " _If my body appears ambiguous, it is more a reflection on you than it is on me_."  Sensing no comprehension on the face of the man, it continued.  " _I appear in whatever form to which appeals to the suffering.  My form is varied, and therefore, the variation of your preference is quite plain_."  

The man nodded, slowly.  " _Ah. Yes. Now I understand_."  But he now had a growing desire to see what other degrees of variation this being bore.  His cock hardened at the idea of it.  Again, the guilt-for-no-guilt lingered.  Pulling it to the bed, he climbed on top of it, and kissed his way down that smooth throat.  He found running one hand through the softness of the chest hair, and cupping a breast in the other was a most fascinating and unusual combination.  He loved it.  He took a nipple between his eager lips, and found a few stray hairs, there too, as the Spirit hissed and writhed beneath him.  

" _I came here to please you_ ," the Spirit repeated, in between surprised gasps.  " _You needn't be concerned with reciprocity.  It is no bargain._ " 

He smiled down at it, and found it was the first smile he bore in a very long time.  " _I am pleased."_ His hands continued to knead it.  " _Isn't it a bit obvious_?"  He sat back on his knees to reveal a very telling tenting in his briefs.  His curiosity now pawed at him, and leaning forward, began to peel the dress further down.  Neither one of them knew what lie beneath.

A vulva.  

" _Oh_."  He cocked his head.  He wasn't disappointed, but rather confused by its straightforward simplicity.  Bordered by the pillow of belly and thigh, there it sat, in its plainness, a vulva, thatched in the same ornamentation as its chest, pink outer lips damp and puffy.  Its arousal was full-bodied, and, despite his confusion, he found himself magnetized by it, softly prying its thick thighs apart to study it.  " _You're female?_ "  he asked, running a calloused finger down the lips.

The man still did not grasp the concept, but the Spirit thought not to frustrate or upset him further with details.  " _I am whatever you need at this moment,"_ it meant to counter, but devised a better thought.  " _What was your wife's name_?"

The man flinched at the term, four small letters conjuring up years of pain and defeat.  But he could see this being meant no harm.  " _Clea_."  

" _Then tonight I am Clea._ "

" _No_."  He bit his lip, pained.  " _No. I don't like this.  Not that name, please.  What can I call you?_ "

'Gabriel,' almost slipped from its lips when it remembered that in this part of the world, it was a name with male inclination, when the man's desire's were clearly conjuring female.  " _Gabrielle_?"  

In response the man slid up its body, returning his lips to its throat.  With a low growl, it whispered, " _Gabrielle,_ " in its ear, and began to run his large hand down the mound, parting the lips.   _"Gabrielle, who has come to rescue me..."_

" _You are too kind_ ," the spirit stressed once more, " _when it is my task to bring you to ecstacy. This is not needed..."_

 _  
_The man spoke between trailing kissed down the generous line of fur that trailed the pliant belly.  " _I am not a young man, Gabrielle_."  The man relished the idea of attaching a name to this strange, bountiful creature.  " _As we age, our ability to hold up - so to speak - becomes less reliable, and we find our pleasure in pleasing our partners_."  He looked up just before reaching the source of fasnication.  " _Though I suppose spirits know nothing of aging, do they_?"

Before the spirit could answer, the man dove his hungry mouth onto it, burying his face and drinking in its liquor, latching onto the pearl.   Its head snapped back and it cried out, realizing its been a long time since it had come to a suffering being with this anatomy.  It had been several years since it had felt this.  

The man was relentless in his task, devouring, and the spirit wrapped its tawny hands into the graying locks of the man's head.  It moved to gripping its hand onto the bed posts, and the man saw that patches of fur grew under its strong, thick arms as well.   He tented into his briefs further.

The spirit had to be careful - sometimes forgetful of its own strength - not to snap the bedpost in its hand as its moans gave way to a final mewl.   It was not even given a moment to exhale in recovery when the man rose to meet his mouth with its, covering it with its own briny sweetness, both moaning in harmony.  Before it could make one final plea to reciprocate, the man was already formulating his next task.  He ripped off the shirt that was a painful reminder of the day's event.  " _I want you.  I want you so bad._ "  His eyes were now dilated not from the being's luminescence, but from his own desire.  He slipped his large thumbs into the waistband, and pulled off the briefs.

The spirit sat up on its elbows, looking at him, now, admirably, in his nakedness.

" _What_?"  He was breathless.

He was breath **taking**.  " _You are beautiful_."

It's true that age did little to soften a body hardened by years of construction, and an uneasy semi-retirement into specialty retail, pocked by periods of deep introversion and seclusion.  At fifty seven, he was broad and tall - much more so than the spirit - and the fabric of mourning did his figure little favor.  

Still, he did not quite get the meaning.  He blushed, looked down at his fully erect cock, and shrugged.  "It's just your run of the mill, average penis."

" **You** are beautiful," it clarified. 

His rougir remained, even as he thanked it with several more kisses and shifted on top of it, positioning himself to enter.  

He did so, and the spirit now refused to lie back in docility.  It would make him see stars, even if it took it all night.  It pulled him in deeper, tightly grabbing his buttocks, and then racking its nails accross them.  He let out a cry that was not completely displeased, taking it as a sign to cease to being so fucking gentle.  As he thrust harder, its hands were all over him - the graying expanse of his chest, his soft aging face, his matted back hair.  Finally, in a spur of the moment maneuver, it braced itself on the creaky bed with one arm, gripped onto the post dearly with the opposite hand, flipping them over with such force, he had to flatten a hand against the wall so that they didn't fall off.  Once secured, he looked up at it in awe.  Even so much shorter than he and so fem- well....delicate looking (?), it could move him so effortlessly.  Perhaps he was naive to treat her - no, **it** \- like a fragile flower.  

The not-so-fragile flower, meanwhile, now bent over his stunned figure, lowering its pelvis so that he snugly sank back into it.  As it clenched its muscles around its impressive girth, the man found himself aroused to new heights.  He gripped its wide, sturdy hips as it slammed into him, repeatedly, with primal urge, and strangled cries.  

This, in addition to the tan hands that raked up and down his chest, pressing into the worn muscles, made him grimace and screw his face up so hard that he turned away to avoid embarrassment.  

" _No_."  Feeling bolder now, the spirit grabbed the man's face and pulled to face its own.  His eyes widened, and it slowed its thrusts, causing him to let out a tortured groan.  " _I want you look at me when you cum.  I want you to look at the face of the one who has come to give all.  I want you to see me."_ The pleasure was almost unbearable now, as his strong fingers dug into the spirits hips.   He let out a sound that was barely human, finding it difficult to not snap his head back and turn away.  Instead, the entire time he pulsed and released inside it, all he saw were those impossibly large black eyes staring warmly, confidently, lovingly, and lustfully into his own.  It was delicious and almost painful.  He gave a final yelp and shuddered, melting into the cheap mattress.  Once he could stay he breathing, he looked up at the smiling figure, still perched on him like a glorious bird of prey.  All it needed were wings.

Finally, he spoke.  " _You didn't.._."

It nodded.  " _This is not about me.  This is all for you_."   It brushed the soaked locks of hair off his face.  A sad realization hit him.

" _I'm going to wake up, and you're going to be gone.  I'm going to be alone again_."  It climbed off of him, as he turned over on his side, practically fetal.  " _If this is God's work, then it's awfully cruel to dangle this in front of me and take it away_."

It saddened along with him.  " _I cannot stay forever.  You will never heal that way.  But I will return everynight until you are free of your pain_." 

" _Then you'll be here until I'm dead_."  His voice was flat, and he looked away from it.   The spirit winced.

It cuddled beside him, putting an arm around him.  It decided to changed the subject.  " _Tell me...tell me more about Matthew_."   This was a terrible move.

The man snapped at it.  " _I don't want to talk about Matthew!  Why...would you even...  you come to me on the day of his funeral to distract me from my pain, and then you ask me to speak of him?_ "   His face was cold steel, all the dilation and arousal gone.  Suddenly the reason its lower half took on a feminine form was obvious.  " _What would you even ask for, anyway?   'All-seeing?  Right?  You already know everything.  DON'T YOU?_ "

The spirit lay on its back, wracked with pity and an inability to form any words of comfort.  " _I'm failing you_ ," is all it could muster up.  Was it crying?  Could spirits cry?

The man did not know, but didn't take a chance.  It curled up next to it, finding comfort in the assigned name.  " _Gabrielle_."  He gently pulled its face to his.  It was indeed crying.  "I am sorry.  I am so sorry.  You must understand..."  His cheeks felt hot and he anticipated his own tears.  " _...I don't want to be alone.  I've spent so much of my life forcing myself to adjust to loneliness; to not get comfortable.  When my daughter left, Matthew was all I had, and when they shot him..._ "  The man wanted to expand, but decided to skip to the point.  " _When I lost him, I lost me.  I don't remember how to be alone, and I don't want to_."   The Spirit held him close now, and let him weep openly.  It was the most humbling sight - this large strong body, trembling against its own in raw and unadulterated fear and despair.   " _Please don't leave me_ ," he choked between sobs.

" _I'm not going to_ ," it promised, looking to God in helplessness.  What the fuck was it going to do now?   

The sobs finally passed to yawns, and lazy kisses became deflating breaths.  He was asleep.  It was restless sleep, with the occasional twitch, jerk, and flounce.  But at least it was sleep.  

When at last he seemed peaceful, the Spirit slipped out from his tangled, tired limbs, and oscillated into a mass of olivine fireflies that flew its way into the heavens. 

The man awoke alone, just as he feared, and didn't move from the bed for the better part of the day.  He lay there, alternating between numb denial and dejected grief.  The thought of Gabrielle.  He thought of Matthew.   It was a dream, he realized.  God was cruel.  The world was gray.  

The spirit, who was not Gabriel, watched him at every moment it could spare time that day.  It had not, in fact, made things any better for the man.  But it had to return that night, in fear that it would otherwise stand to make things worse.

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
